Silly Boy
by JediShampoo
Summary: Madame Suliman remembers the past, and experiences the present. They are much alike. Set just post HMC movie. Movieverse, inspired by the Pendragon Challenge at book forums.


**Title: Silly Boy**

**By Jedishampoo **(jedishampoo at aol dot com)

**Rating: **PG-ish?

**Summary: **Madame Suliman remembers the past, and experiences the present; they are much alike. Set just post-HMC movie.

**Author's Notes: **Written for/inspired by the Pendragon 100 fic challenge over at the Book:Diana Wynne Jones "Official Pendragon Collection Forum" boards. **Yeah, I know, this is movie!verse. That's what I do, I fear. But I was inspired by the terms of the challenge: a romance other than Sophie x Howl (though it can include them and does, a bit); a celebration; a mirror, a magical animal, and a line of poetry. The mirror requirement has been met metaphorically; if you spot it and think it's pretentious, feel free to let me know. **:) Sigh. And now on to writing my HMC/Horatio Hornblower crossover! Boats, yay! Crossover, yay!

**xxx**

The silly boy talked and talked about the Peace like he'd invented it.

"Sul-i-man!" he sang in his hearty, affected voice, striding into her garden sanctuary for the tenth time in one afternoon. He waved a wax-encrusted note in the air. Several red, brittle chips of the wax flew off the paper, littering her marble patio floor like flecks of dried blood. "Old Harry sent a couple of his dukes. Dukes! One of 'em brought this note from Harry himself. They're staying for the celebration. There'll be speeches and everything, Suliman! Now all my subjects will know that I really mean this _Peace_ business. Ha! Good ol' Harry."

_Good old Harry_ was Strangia's king, and their sworn enemy only a month ago. "Wonderful news, Your Majesty," she nodded. And then he was gone again, as quickly as he'd come. She was glad. Just then he'd looked too much like his father for her to enjoy his presence in the slightest.

She let the serene smile melt from her face for the tenth time in an afternoon. Dux, the eldest of her matched lackeys, spotted her expression and made to bring her a glass of wine. She waved him off and fought back a yawn. It was a sad thing when relaxation itself was a tiring matter. She would need a nap before the evening's festivities.

Perhaps she could have used magic to give herself more energy. Conceivably, she could have used magic to cure the affliction in her legs. But magic was not a bottomless well; everything had to come from somewhere. Her days of spell-slinging during the late War had left her exhausted.

It was too bad, really, that Howl had not been more biddable. She really could have used his help, the assistance of a true apprentice. But Howl had run away and left her once more. It was no wonder she'd never taken another full apprentice. And to make matters worse, this time he'd taken her _dog. _Did the man realize how long it took to train a magical canine?

_Probably._ Another spike of irritation-- of anger-- pierced her innards at the thought of Howl and his lazy perfidy. But she was too exhausted to maintain it. She let it pass through her, out the back of her rolling chair. Renewed weariness replaced it.

"I think I'll rest in my chambers for a while," she told the two blond boys at her side. Dux and Dunne were brothers a year in age apart, two of the five boys who offered her their devotion in return for the tiny nuggets of magical knowledge she doled carefully out to them. Not the true apprentices she so sorely missed, but lucky to be serving her all the same. "Dunne, tell the others to prepare them, will you? I'd like them darkened, please. Pull the curtains."

"Yes, ma'am!" the boy squeaked and ran off, white tie flying over his shoulder. Dux pushed her chair into the hall.

Once upon a time in the fairy-tale past she'd had energy, boundless energy it seemed in retrospect. When she'd been the Queen's mother's apprentice, she'd walked this palace's halls as if they'd been her own and not the King's, and only Ingary had not yet been hers.

**xxx**

"_Give us another kiss, Peg. One more kiss, and I'll make you head sorceress, when I am King."_

He'd cornered her in a hallway, not the first time he'd done so.

"Reginald, I'm old enough to be your mother," she told the red-headed young man with a laugh. It was a lie. He was young, but not _that_ young. And he was handsome. And as stupid as a brick.

"As if I cared about that! A beautiful and talented woman is always fascinating, no matter how old the package. I can't stop thinking about you, Peg."

"How _old_ the _package_?" she asked, letting a note of incredulity creep into her voice. Yes, he was stupid as stones. But looks and charm-- he had those in spades, along with just enough intelligence to realize the usefulness of magic in running a kingdom. That was something his father the King had never understood.

"You know what I mean, Peg," he said in a husky voice. She felt the strength of his arm as it curled about her waist. The hallway was dark, and his appeal at this intimate proximity was undeniable. His breathless whisper in her ear was warm with passion, the straightforward, earnest and truthful passion of the young and powerful. "My lady: flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, lease but their show; their substance still lives sweet."

_Poetry for older women_. She wondered how he'd ever managed to memorize it. "Your father will have an apoplexy," she began, but trailed off as his lips found the pulse at her throat.

"Blast father. He doesn't know what he has. I know we'll make a great team."

"In the bedroom or out of it?" she riposted weakly, hoping against hope to shock him with her three-dozen-plus years of directness.

But he was either too young or too intense to be other than captivated. "Both, I'm sure," he told her lips.

**xxx**

_Seduced by youth, and a pretty face, and the promise of a kingdom._

She awoke, somewhat refreshed, just as the clock tolled the start of evening. Dreams of the past hadn't overly plagued her rest, only tainted it the slightest bit. Still, they'd been annoying. She would need her most tranquilly-calm face for the long evening ahead in his son's company.

This King had all of Reginald's stupidity but none of his charm. He knew nothing about her, only that she was more intelligent than he and had served his father faithfully, and so he trusted all her decisions blindly and made them his own. Things went her way, and thus she ruled the kingdom with none of the credit. It could have been worse, she supposed.

Tonight's celebration was an exception. She'd advised against it, but he'd been heart-set on a big party-- he _was_ like his father in his love of a party-- for all of Kingsbury. If she'd let him, he'd have emptied the royal coffers to liquor up every man, woman and child in the City.

"Fireworks!" he said to her with a waggled finger when she rolled into the throne room a few minutes later.

"Your Majesty?"

"Fireworks, Sul-i-man! Did you take care of the fireworks?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." She had to exert effort not to sigh as she said it.

"Ha! Bet they're good. You know how my people love things that go _boom_!"

She probably could have made a case against that statement, given how shaken his people still were this few short weeks after the end of the War. Places like Porthaven and Market Chipping remained virtual ghost-towns, families still unsure whether or not it was safe to return from their relatives' houses in the country.

She was saved from reply by the entrance of the Strangian dukes and their retainers. His Majesty fawned over the foreign noblemen with his usual hearty condescension, then brought them over to her for introductions.

"Your Graces. How do you do? How do _you_ do, sir?" she greeted the dukes with calm civility.

"Ma'am. Ma'am." They, in turn, bowed and eyed her with respect. As well they should. Ingary would have won that War, eventually. They had all the most skilled witches and wizards, many trained by Suliman herself or by her successful apprentices.

His Majesty rubbed his hands together in childish glee that ill-suited his six-foot-plus frame. "Fireworks! Did you know we're kicking off the Peace Celebration with fireworks? Suliman makes the very best!"

"I'm sure she does," the elder of the two dukes said with smooth, and nearly undetectable, irony. She glanced at the man again, more closely than she had the first time. He was handsome, tall and mustachioed, with a patrician nose and silver-flecked hair and eyes that held a modicum of intelligence. She sighed inwardly. He was exactly the sort of man that she might have turned Reginald into some day, if only he'd been able to live.

"Let's get outside now so we don't miss 'em!" the King said, waving them towards his throne room's presentation balcony. His white-gloved hands fluttered like doves, swooping and blurring about in his excitement.

The last bit of sun dropped below the horizon, leaving only orange streaks and a strange, almost eerie silence behind. The crowds gathered in the Royal Square were hushed; their voices had dropped in tandem with the leaking away of sunlight, until nary a child or street-hawker cried out in the waiting, watchful dark.

A fiery-yellow-white explosion boomed overhead. Only she remained still and calm; the King jumped and clapped with merriment, the dukes out of startlement, and the crowd below heaved with a mixture of both. Her fireworks _were_ the best, she thought as she watched the successive, well-planned blooms of color burst across the sky. After their initial expectant silence and then fright, the people clapped and the children zipped in nervous, excited circles out in the street. It was a display of fireworks to end all displays. They were celebrating Peace.

**xxx**

_That last cannon volley had been close. Too close._

It seemed as if the very foundations of the castle shook with the concentrated proximity of so many heavy iron cannonballs fired at once. That was impossible, though, because her spells were protecting every stone. Still, it had seemed very close.

"Peg."

Reginald found her on the balcony, watching the City as it burned. It would be rebuilt, someday, but now it burned. She turned from the fiery sight to look at him, to see what made his voice so low and hoarse. What she saw stopped her heart. When it started beating again, she ran to him, to run her hands across his blackened face and through his hair, all its red-sunshine covered with soot like the black, oily clouds covering the city's daylight.

The sight of it was painful to her. Somewhere along the way she'd let herself care for him, let herself see the good heart beneath the nonsense. Intimacy had worked its magic on her.

"What happened to you?" Her voice was breathless, but she didn't care. Death had been in his eyes, his death. She loved him, and she didn't care.

"He insisted on leading the troops himself. Stupid." He shook a weary, blackened head. "He never did trust your magic."

"What?" she asked. He was making no sense. And he needed medical attention; there was a nasty cut under the grime on his forehead. _Perhaps he was delirious_. "What are you talking about?"

He brushed her hand away from his face. "I'm trying to tell you that Father is dead. I am King."

"But…but…" she began, then trailed off. What was one to say at such a moment? _Congratulations? I am sorry?_ So she said nothing, only brushed again at the blood-matted hair sticking to his wound.

But Kingship had filled him already, like a ghost in its new home. Already he was more imperious than he'd been only last night, or even a few hours ago. He grasped her wrist to halt her tender gesture, and held it down at her side. Then he took a step back. "I must end this stupid war. I must be married."

No one could say she wasn't quick-witted, even when it came to men. His cold demeanor clearly said, _marry someone who is not you._

She took her own step back. "You must do as you see fit, Your Majesty," she told him.

Reginald-- the King-- pulled at the scorched hem of his jacket, straightening it, imbuing dignity. "This War must end. It was my father's war. But first, I will do as I promised and make you my Head Sorceress. I'll need your help. Will you serve me in that capacity, Madame Suliman?" _And that is all_, his voice didn't say aloud.

"I will, Your Majesty." She straightened her back and raised her chin until she felt as tall as he, and could return his cold, professional look straight into his eyes. It was a sad defense, but all she had at the moment.

His eyes flashed with some quick emotion, unreadable to her. "I'll assemble the generals, then," he said, and left the room.

It was no matter that her heart was crumbling within her; this was the opportunity of a lifetime, one she'd worked hard for. _The rule of magic._

**xxx**

_Magic was what made Ingary special. There were no better fireworks in the world._

Other nations in this world had magic, but there were none that had integrated it into society so seamlessly. Here witches and wizards set up shop or took apprentices or fought or formed alliances just like people in any other profession might; and the people accepted, even expected, magical assistance with their lives as their due.

The people of Kingsbury had listened politely to the speeches made by their King and by the Strangian dukes, and now they circulated past the low balcony. After gawking or making their obeisances or both, they wandered off to drink and celebrate.

She saw a few familiar faces in the crowd, and one in particular that raised her ire. It was Howl. He wore one of his little grins of conquest, and was dragging along an entourage. The entourage included the girl who'd pretended to be his mother-- amusing, that little episode had been. It also included _her own dog,_ in the arms of that carroty-pated orphan that Howl called an apprentice. She frowned down at Howl and he gave her a cheeky little wave.

Only Howl would do such a thing. He was a bold sort of coward, an anomaly.

The girl, who seemed to have lost her old-lady curse somewhere along the way, gripped Howl's hand and frowned up at the balcony. Her face looked older, somehow, than it had when she'd been cursed. She'd gone from being a wrinkled girl to a smooth-faced and pretty woman. Several things could have caused such a transformation; the sorceress in her suspected baptism by fear and fire and sweat and dark magic.

_She_ could respect that.

"Hey, ho!" the King said from beside her. "Isn't that the rogue wizard you were all in a bunch about? You there!" he yelled down at the little group.

"Yes," she told him. "Though I've revoked the warrant against him. He did find that missing Strangian Prince, after all."

The dukes looked down into the crowd, interested.

"You there," the King called again as the assembled citizens below glanced at each other in confusion, trying to decide whom their King was hailing.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" Howl finally replied.

"Thanks for your help with that Prince business," the King called. "But next time, be a little more snappy about answering a summons. We can probably find a use for you."

She smiled to herself at his side, and for the first time in a long time was glad to be serving Reginald's son. Though stated so cavalierly, that had been a Royal _We_, and spoken from those lips, his statement a written-in-stone Royal Order. It warmed her cold heart with gratification to watch Howl's face as it paled.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied.

As the girl curtsied and the orphan gaped and Heen tried to hide in the girl's skirts, she wondered how long Howl would stay in Ingary with such a thing hanging over his handsome head. Chances were, he'd take his ridiculous castle far, far away.

She also wondered how long his newfound domestic happiness would last. Probably as long as his current plain, though flattering, haircolor.

The girl at his side scowled when the King looked away. That young lady wanted to protect Howl; it was evident in her angry gaze and in the way she dragged him off through the crowd. What that young lady didn't realize was that Howl did not need protecting in the slightest, and what was more, he never had.

_She_ realized it. He was a bold coward, yes, but brilliant and devious, and exactly the sort of person she could have used in her work, had he been more reliable. Ah well, the girl would learn it soon enough. Men were not to be counted upon.

**xxx**

_He lay in his bed, hair dark and greasy and lank against his pillow, his face an ashen grey except for the pinkly-feverish splotches._

"Can I count on you to keep this country going?" he asked her in a low voice harshed by days of coughing. "I love my boy, but he'll need you. He's not ready. You know this."

"I will," she told him, for what else could she say? To act otherwise would destroy everything she'd accomplished in the last twenty-five years. Together, though not as they'd once been, they'd built a strong, happy kingdom out of the shards of Ingary.

He coughed again, and blood escaped from his handkerchief to splatter his white sheets with pinpricks of red.

"No more wars," he said.

"Hmm," she replied noncommittally. _That_, she couldn't promise. Wars just happened, sometimes, and were useful in their ways.

But this-- _pneumonia_. He'd caught pneumonia, of all things, one of the most useless of all ailments. That was something magic couldn't cure; something she hadn't been able to protect him from. The common cold gone bad.

To further the irony, he'd caught the cold from his wife. The Queen, who was dead already these last few days.

"Call him in," he rasped.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, and turned in her chair to wave her walking-stick at the guard standing in the doorway. The guard nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him.

The room was silent for a few minutes except for the occasional cough or labored breath. The doctor shook his head after every one, as if expecting it to be the last. But soon enough the Prince wandered in, twenty-two and tall and red-haired as his father had ever been, face solemn and frightened. He clasped his father's hand. The King looked at each of them in turn with his watery eyes.

"Goodbye," she thought she heard Reginald whisper, and when the doctor next shook his head, it was the correct moment to have done so.

_Her only love was dead_. How did she feel about that? She wasn't sure she was supposed to know. Surely such a thing didn't happen every day.

"I should go, Your Majesty," she said to the new King. "Leave you in privacy."

He looked lost, like he didn't know what to do or say, either. She pitied him. "I'll go with you. Someone's got to tell the people, I guess."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," she said, and took his proffered arm to assist her through the door. Soon, she knew, she wouldn't be walking upright at all; the cane hardly helped anymore.

Soon came more quickly than she'd anticipated; she stumbled on the threshold, anguishing pain leaking throughout her entire body. _Why?_ She didn't want to think about it.

The King summoned a chair, and she left him in the hall, let the servants wheel her to her chambers. He could inform the people. _She_ had other things to do, other business to prepare and execute. First, though, she needed to find her apprentice.

Howl had a habit of disappearing whenever things became particularly stressful or upsetting or dangerous. It was probably a talent of some sort, she couldn't decide for sure. What was _most_ probable was that he was hiding out in the Wastes at his uncle's empty cottage. Her legs ached at simply the thought of trying to track him down. Perhaps she would just send someone to find him. _Silly boy_. She'd whip him into shape sooner or later.

**End**

**xxx**

**Comments, criticism, please! I'm begging! The smallest crumb of your kindness will at least let me know someone's reading. :) Thanks bunches!**

_Note: The line of poetry spoken by Reginald is from William Shakespeare's Sonnet #5._

**Disclaimer: Most characters owned by Diana Wynne Jones and/or Studio Ghibli; I made no money from writing this, and did it all for fun.**


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